In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 13

Chapter 13 - Qira

The next weeks were spent trudging slowly along the road which led east along the Cantar-Laternas border. Considering the strained relations, there was very little in the way of patrols, or other troops, and Qira thought absently that the province was very vulnerable. No doubt with her father’s death, the administration had collapsed.
In fact there seemed to be few people on the roads altogether. They passed a few small villages but did not stay anywhere for more than a few hours. After the experience of Doujiang, she bought supples, saying that she was doing so for her father and brothers, in the hope that it would discourage any from accosting her.
As they neared the arm of mountains which stretched down from the north to separate  Cantar from the Waste, the greater danger came from wild animals. Qira had rarely travelled so far from Minglun in the past, but she assumed there would be packs of wolves around, and perhaps even bears.

When she found tracks, they began to build a fire each night, and Qira was much more careful when positioning her snares. The worst part of it all was the silence. It felt as if she were completely alone, and no matter what she said to Lillah, her younger sister did not reply. When it became too much, Qira began to talk at her sister, not expecting a reply, but just wanting to hear a human voice, even if it was her own.
Hiking through the foothills of the mountains, she played a game. At the crest of each hill, she scanned the valley ahead, and decided on the strongest position to ambush the valley floor. It made the difficulty of the travelling more bearable, and did a little to abate the fears she had concerning her sister and the massive journey they still had to undertake.
So far, Qira had been impressed with Lillah’s endurance. There had obviously been no verbal complaints, but she also seemed almost, as tireless as Qira herself, although they did move slower than Qira would have alone.

The journey south seemingly took them between seasons, and as they drew nearer the end of the mountain range, the climate grew warmer and warmer. Loathe as she was to take off protective clothing, she eventually had to concede that she could not wear her full dark leathers under the midday sun. If she had tried, Qira thought she would quickly succumb to exhaustion or dehydration. Having lived in central Cantar her entire life, she was not immediately ready for the southern summer, and considered the weather in Saphrax with trepidation. Cantar was of course hot sometimes, but it in no way prepared her for hour after hour and day after day of the merciless sun.
She was unaware of when they crossed the border, but a village they came to one afternoon had the Laternae banner flying in the town square, and there was a patrol of Lancers staying at the inn. Qira immediately decided to move on, and steer well clear. The past months had bred an aversion to troops of soldiers, and she had no wish to mix with Lancers in any case.

It was just as she turned away and realised Lillah was no longer with her that a trio of drunken Lancers emerged from the tavern. One began to retch into the patch of grass around the corner, but the other two simply inhaled a few deep breaths, looking around and blinking slightly at the sunlight which shone out of the east as it slowly dropped towards the horizon.
One of them noticed her, walking alone, and called out to her. Qira ignored him, for the suggestion had been crude, and continued walking, looking around in a panic for Lillah. As she moved to the edge of the village, she saw tracks leading back the way they had come, towards the forest they had emerged from scarcely fifteen minutes ago. She heard the clink of chainmail behind her and turned to see the three Lancers coming after her. As she turned, her cloak came off one shoulder to reveal the curves of her body. Raucous calls followed, accompanied by wolf-whistling and crude gestures.

Shaking her head in disgust, she turned away and continued to follow the tracks. The shouts continued however, and Qira was suddenly afraid. Surely it would not happen again. This time there was no Aaron, and three of them. She unslung her bow, and eased a few arrows in her quiver. Just holding it for some reason reassured her. She knew it could kill. Where once that had terrified her, she had known true fear and loss in the weeks since then, and these had hardened her conscience. Qira yearned to be the girl she had been, and thought she could be, if she was only left alone with her sister. It seemed the Lancers had not taken kindly to her bow, and had begun to jog towards her. She began to jog herself, and was soon amongst the trees. Home territory.

As she moved in past the treeline, Qira subconsciously changed her stance. Now she was stalking, tracking Lillah as she would a frightened deer. Utterly silent as she moved, Qira was able to clearly discern every step each of the Lancers took. She winced at their clumsiness as they crashed through the undergrowth. Stopping to examine some footprints more closely, she realised the Lancers were getting closer. Cursing quietly, she slipped to one side, and hid amongst the tall, dense bracken dropping to one knee and taking care to still the foliage she disturbed. With her hood drawn up, she was nearly invisible.
The Lancers crashed on by, and Qira saw that there were only two now. One must have gotten bored and returned to the tavern. Once they were well clear, she circled back to Lillah’s tracks, and swore. The clumsy oafs had stamped all over them, making it impossible to see which direction she had disappeared in. Carefully and quietly, Qira began to look around for other signs of her passage: snapped twigs, bent back branches and the like.

She had just spotted a twig slightly askew leading east towards the Waste when a hand clamped over her mouth. Clad in leather, she almost thought it could be her guard again, and so hesitated. Seconds later she realised how stupid that was, as the man spun her around, and pushed her to the floor. At the same time he called out to his friends, and they came crashing back through the trees. Qira’s mind was reeling. How had he crept up on her? While she was still stunned, one of them plucked the bow from her hand like he was confiscating it from a child. Out of curiosity, he tested the draw, and was surprised at the strength it required.
“Been playing with daddy’s bow?” The man said harshly, before laughing and tossing it away into the undergrowth. Another ripped the quiver off her shoulder. She managed to get her hand to her knife, drawing it and slashing wildly at the man who caught her. Laughing, he deflected her arm with his own, grabbing her wrist and twisting it to open her fingers, so she dropped the blade. He kicked it away still laughing.
“Got a little spirit? I like that in a girl.”
One of the other men screamed. It was a piercing, effeminate cry, and as he reeled back, Qira saw him clutching his face. Between the fingers covering one eye protruded an arrow. It was an arrow that she recognised.
Even as he collapsed, the other man still standing turned, and the movement saved his life. The arrow would have taken him in the throat, but instead impacted high on his right shoulder. Forgetting his companions, he turned and ran back towards the village. The man before her swore loudly and got to his feet, just in time for a third arrow to hit him in the groin. It had clearly been intended for his head.

The man looked down stunned for an instant, and then screamed. The sound was unlike anything Qira had ever heard before. The man fell to floor, still screaming loudly. Ignoring him, and the other body, Qira quickly dressed in the clothes still wearable. The blouse was gone, so it would have to be back to full leathers, and her cloak. She quickly found her quiver and bow, thankfully undamaged, but was unable to locate her knife.
“Lillah!” Her sister appeared from behind a tree ten metres away, silent as a wraith.
“When did you get so good?” The relief in her voice was palpable, but she didn’t care. Her sister shrugged. Qira turned, not expecting an answer.
“Watched you.” The two words shocked Qira. After weeks of silence, it was amazing to hear her voice. Not understanding why now, she hugged Lillah tight to her chest. Then there were shouts ringing out from the direction of the village. The rest of the patrol was coming.
“Come on, we have to run. We’ll go east through the forest until we lose them.” With that they started off, Qira positively joyful despite their predicament. Lillah was going to be alright. She had no doubt that they would lose the Lancers in the forest, judging by the three she had met. After a few hours, Qira became aware of something huge to her right. Picking up the pace, she hoped it hadn’t noticed them. Unfortunately it kept up. Qira set an arrow on her string, expecting a bear.

When a man stepped out in front of her then, she only half-drew. Startled at the sheer size of the man, she temporarily forgot all about the Lancers.
Qira was not short, yet the man towered at least head and shoulders over her. He was bare-chested, wearing only thin linen britches. As such, she could fully appreciate the two slabs of muscle which were his pectorals, and obvious solid abdomen. Sculpted arms rested easily on the pommel of a sword at his left hip, and the haft of an axe at his right. His face was dominated by a tawny beard, and clearly broken nose, but his eyes seemed to brim with laughter. With a wolfish grin, he turned and disappeared again.
Slightly scared, Qira and Lillah continued onwards, both straining to sense the man. They could not.
About ten minutes later, they heard the Lancers behind them. They were running, clearly not tracking them anymore. As they drew nearer, she heard the curses, and the mutterings about spirits and wraiths. Then she heard a loud cry of pain mingled with utter terror. Telling Lillah to do likewise, she climbed a tree.

It gave her a good view of the group of Lancers. There were eight. Far fewer than she had heard enter the forest. Even as she watched, there was a loud snap off the one side, causing everyone including Qira to look for the source. In that instant there was another scream, and her eyes snapped back to the Lancers. Now there were seven. What was going on?
“Come together. Back to back!” The officer in charge seemed to have regained some control, and his men came together in a ragged circle facing outwards. The group waited for a full ten minutes, and nothing happened.
“See? Nothing to fear.”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than the huge man burst clear of the forest. He appeared from nowhere with sword and axe swinging in tandem. Four men were down before anyone could react. The two troopers drew swords and rushed him, but he met one of their blades and easily avoided the other. The dappled sun light danced along his skin as he slipped inside one man’s guard and cut deep into his leg. The man crumpled, his opponent already turning to smash his axe into the other’s side. It was a mortal wound, and he left them both lying on the ground and approached the officer.

As he drew nearer, the officer pulled his sword, but then dropped it, palms held up for mercy.
“You would hunt a girl for fighting off would-be rapists?” The man spoke her tongue with a harsh accent, but she could still make out the words.
“I...I...she killed Lancers. Oh gods, you’re an Ethernath...please don’t kill me.” His voice turned to a high-pitched whine, and the Ethernath man grimaced.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” There was something in his tone that should have warned the officer, but he heard the answer he wanted to hear, and threw himself at the Ethernath’s feet.
Calmly, the huge man bent down, and sliced cleanly through the tendons on the man’s heels, and then did the same with his wrists. The officer’s horror only equalled his confusion.
“But...you said you wouldn’t...” The Ethernath shook his head sadly.
“I said I wouldn’t, but there is nothing to stop me leaving you for the wolves.” The accent only had the effect of making the words truly terrifying. The officer began to scream and cry, desperately trying to move.
***
Althalos

And so it was that Althalos came to be riding with his three companions, and a detachment of warriors of the Toscene Expanse. The officer, named Bojan, had provided them with a translator, and nine other soldiers to accompany them to the capital. Always eager to learn, Althalos had questioned Vasek, their translator, closely about his people, and found that they called themselves the Jesterka, as well as a good deal about their Expanse, and how it was ruled. He was lucky Vasek was eager to practice the foreign language.
The Jesterka people were divided into three distinct Castes. The Pravitka, which Bojan had mentioned, were effectively the rulers of the Expanse. White-scaled, they made up the senior commanders. The Vojak, or warrior Caste was charged with the defence of the eastern border, as well as pushing further west and south against the wild clans, and were marked out by their black scales. The way Vasek described it, they all had some red scales too, but the distribution was as individual as Althalos’ fingerprints. Last were the Otrok slave Caste. They were the grunts who laboured to build the cities and defences, and came in all shapes, sizes and colours.

The most interesting discussion they had was about the religion of the Jesterka. Althalos was surprised to find out that hey revered dragons above all else, despite the fact that none had been seen since before the elves rose to prominence. Vasek likened them to prophets, as they had apparently told the first Jesterka at the dawn of time that they must prepare for The Great Shadow, and that their struggle would open the doorway to ascension. He recited it in a mantra that sounded as if it had been drilled into him. It certainly explained the absence of any trade, and the existence of only three Castes; any more were simply unnecessary. They had no need for money what with the slaves, and so trade was worthless for them.

Tobrecan and the  others kept to themselves for the most part, camping away from the warriors. Understandably nervous that even when not wearing plate and carrying weapons, they looked bred for destruction which, of course Althalos realised now, they were. Vasek explained one night that the Vojak caste exclusively fought as heavy infantry Legionnaires, and that each Legion numbered some 10,000. Althalos wondered at that. 10,000 of theses Jesterka would be a formidable fighting force just to look at, even if he had not witnessed their fighting capability. He hoped they would be a significant help in the fight against The Darkness, which from the sounds of it, was The Great Shadow to them.
Althalos’ train of thought was broken by raised voices. He looked around, worried about what might be happening, but then relaxed as he saw the source. Jorge was sitting with one of the Jesterka, who had a block of red scales across his bare chest, and the two were trying to teach each other their languages using gestures and mimes. As he watched, he was surprised he hadn’t yet asked Vasek to teach him their language, and resolved to the following morning. He struggled to contain a snort of laughter as he continued watching the pair: the tiny, square man next to the tall, hulking lizard.

The next day the lessons began in earnest, and Althalos was pleased that he picked it up fastest. Soon all four of the outsiders were able to understand a great deal, although even Althalos still had difficulty speaking words back. The terrain they passed was remarkably similar to that the other side of the mountains, and they all found themselves picking up the words to describe their surroundings much faster than anything else. After almost two months, near the end of summer, Vasek finally announced that they were nearing the capital.
When he caught sight of it, Althalos’ breath caught in his throat, and the men behind him gasped. Vasek laughed his low, coughing laugh at their reactions and continued to walk forwards. Subconsciously, Althalos was impressed at how tireless the Legionnaires were: they had walked the entire way from the border, while the outsiders had ridden.

He did not, could not dwell on that for long though. The city was among the strangest collection of buildings he had ever seen. Right on the coast, the area adjacent to the sea was utterly beautiful, even compared to the cities of his Empire. There were many large, white buildings clustered around an enormous one which sported a huge, bronze dome. Around this central area lay row after row of squat, plain buildings, which looked more like a military encampment. The contrast was unbelievable. When he asked, Vasek explained that the white buildings were the temples, where the Pravitka resided, while the uglier buildings housed three full Legions at any one time. The big building with the dome was The Dwelling of The Great One, although none of the Vojak Jesterka had ever seen it up close. The absence of walls he explained with a smile, baring his razor teeth.

“Why would we need walls when we have an overlapping wall of shields? The Jesterka need no walls but those formed of their warriors. Those on the boundary are a deterrent rather than anything else.”
***
Markus

The brutally cold wind howled across the plain, snapping at cloaks, penants and banners alike. It assaulted the senses of the rough circle of ragged men at the rear of the assembled army. Its icy fingers tore at any exposed skin, and the noise was terrifying. Tortured screams carried across the wide expanse, despite the lack of any obvious source. The group ignored the cold and continued poring over the map held between them.
“The shieldwall will hold the centre, with archers behind. The river will protect our right flank, and the marshes should funnel them to the strongest point.”

The man was forty years of age, with touches of distinguished silver creeping in at the temples.
“The Blademasters will protect the left flank. I think a swift, surgical strike is the answer. We must kill the vampires: they are the key.” Markus struggled to keep the exasperation out of his voice.
Virinius, the man who had spoken before countered immediately.
“No, we cannot lose the Blademasters; they are our best troops. We will need them in reserve.”
“If we leave them in reserve, they will be of no use until we have lost the battle. And we will lose. Nearly two million undead are arrayed over there, including some 30,000 vampires.” Markus fixed the older man with a piercing stare. No man was able to hold that highly unusual golden-brown stare for long, and Virinius was no exception. He dropped his gaze first.
“Ok, but it is your failure. You will receive no support from us.”
Markus turned away in anger, striding away rapidly to retrieve his destrier and mount up for battle. The circle disintegrated, moving away to their respective forces.

Markus cantered off to the left flank, and to the head of his forces. He had some 3,500 Blademasters waiting for him. Each was wearing chainmail with a breastplate, and carrying a lance and shield. The swords for which they were famed were carried in matched scabbards crossed over on their back. The horses all carried the extra weight of barding, chainmail hanging in sheets down either side to protect their flanks.
Away to his right, the rest of the host was moving into battle array. Spearmen moved into ranks at the front, linking their shields with the man either side, to form a hopefully impenetrable wall against the undead. These troops tended to be levies, and so not particularly well-trained. They all had spears and large shields, but they would rely mainly on these shields to protect them. Leather was the type of armour most prevalent, and it would do little to stop even the bare hands of the horde even now shuffling towards them.
An order was given and spears dropped all along the line, their heads levelled in the direction of the distant enemy. Behind the twelve ranks of spearmen, lines of archers filed into position, and began to string their bows. There were even a few crossbows present, but they were far rarer than the simple bows used throughout the continent for hunting.

Immediately to his right was a banner bearing the device of a golden coiled fish, showing that Lord Cyrus’ troops would be on the end of the line once he rode out. The gold and green uniforms of his soldiers spread quite some distance, which was unsurprising given the fact that he was the lord of one of the most densely populated areas in the entire Federation: The Golden Shore. His conscription must have been effective: he knew that Cyrus was too much of a miser to finance any more of a standing army than was strictly necessary.
Further along was the lone tower of Lord Kasen, and Markus was glad that he was not on the extreme flank, in the most dangerous position. During the past years of campaigning, he had grown to respect and like the man who was charged with defending the frontier. It helped of course, that the two were roughly of an age, and that the respect was mutual. The battle lines disappeared into the distance, but Markus knew that the army assembled numbered around sixty thousand.

“Today is the day we return the dead to Death’s cold embrace. While many of you may also be claimed, but you will go to him willingly; you will greet him as an old friend. We fight for the very survival of our race. We will succeed or we will die!”

His men cheered as he finished, brandishing their lances in the air. With a roar, he raised his arm to order them into motion.

“Ride to ruin, and the world’s end!” Markus booted his horse into a trot, and then a canter, knowing that his men were keeping up, even as they took up the cry. The line splashed through a babbling stream, the shallow river bed barely slowing them. As soon as they were clear, the cavalry spurred into a gallop.

At one hundred yards, Markus could make out individual figures in the mass. Naked bodies and pale skin abounded, with only a smattering of weapons and armour present.

At fifty yards, he could see the condition of his opponents. Desiccated forms made up the front rank. Scraps of skin hung from overly bony figures.

At thirty yards, time slowed to a crawl. The horses extended into full gallop, and his entire world was drowned out by the rolling thunder of hooves.

Twenty yards out, the lances came down, penants snapping.

And then suddenly, and all at once, time returned to its normal pace.
The front lines of corpses simply crumpled, disappearing beneath the weight of fully-armoured men and horses. Their entire weight was focused into the tips of their lances, so they punched through wooden shields, flesh and bone with indiscriminate ease.

The Blademasters initially seemed unstoppable as they drove into the mass of undead, but eventually their momentum began to diminish. Riders were swarmed, dragged from their horses and literally ripped apart, suffering the same fate as their mounts.
Markus was heading the charge, pushing further and further ahead of the main line.  He saw a ripple ahead of him and half-pulled on his reins to slow his charge. His horse was mad with fear, however, so his efforts had a limited effect.
Something burst out of the mass, barrelling through friend and foe alike. Markus did not hesitate to drive his lance into the chest of the beast.
The thrust seemed to do nothing more than rock the monster back. From its crouched position, it uncoiled like a spring, exploding up and through his horse’s chest and sending him flying into the air.

Markus crashed to the ground in a crumpled heap. He felt a tingling down his spine and feared the worst. Clearly the fall had been worse than he thought. Markus was overwhelmed by the hopelessness of his situation. He was amazed he had not been swarmed yet, but he assumed he was to be left for the larger beast. He tried to raise his head so as to see his end, but was unable to do so. The tingling spread, and Markus thought that it perhaps may not be to do with his injuries. Soon it became a numbness that spread through his body. He was finding it increasingly difficult to focus his thoughts, and attempts resulted only in blinding pain.

Closing his eyes, he felt a sudden calmness wash over him, dousing the fires of agony. He got to his feet, the weight of his armour suddenly forgotten, and drew his swords. Only then did he open his eyes. When he did so, the undead before him shrank back. Gone were the unusual brown irises. They were now a pale blue, and cold with it. They promised death.

The beast rose from the remains of the horse, entrails tangled around one brutish foreleg, and charged him. The monster was huge, towering over him, and about the size of a large horse and much bigger than the one it had just butchered.
It was surprised, therefore, when Markus’ blade whipped out to remove first one foreleg and then, as the beast crashed to the ground, its head within a matter of seconds.

At this, the undead began to flinch back, their binding magic overridden by a much more primeval instinct: that of survival.
A strike force of vampires seemed to appear from nowhere as the horde peeled back, and through the layers of detached calmness, Markus felt fear. Even one of these vampires would be more than he could manage.

And yet still, his legs marched him ever onwards. The vampires closed, and he could tell they were used to fighting with each other. They moved in tandem, pulling him in every direction at once. Markus was considered one of the greatest swordsmen of the age, and was able to hold for a full ten seconds before the first blow carved into his thigh, driving him to one knee.  The next rent his cuirass, forcing him to all fours.
As he waited for the final blow to fall, Markus became acutely aware of the mud between his fingers. However absurd it was at that moment, Markus studied closely the miniature terrain created by the movement of soil. Great mountains rose up in sharp contrast to wide, deep valleys, and Markus was struck by the intricacy of it. This was what he was fighting to protect. The land. The Darkness did not only kill people; it destroyed life itself.

As the emotion swelled within him, Markus felt a rush of power course into him. The torrent spread through his mind, consuming it in a raging tide of raw power. He was forced to close his eyes as the vampire before him had raised its sword. The blade was already beginning to descend. This was wrong. Markus held up a hand, palm flat.

“No.”
The one word was no more than a whisper, yet it reverberated across the open space. They seemed to act like a physical force on the vampire, as its blade stopped its descent.
Now even some of the vampires looked worried, and they had been joined by others. They converged on him, and another attempted to strike him.
“No.”
The word had a similar effect as before.

Markus was jerked to his feet almost comically, and then opened his eyes. The blue of his irises had spread, creating an eerie blue light which seemed to emanate from his very skull.
“Who are you?” The words came out oddly shaped, spoken as they were by an alien tongue. The shock of hearing a vampire actually speak did not –could not- touch him, encased as he was by a ceaseless torrent of pain. Markus did not respond, simply lifting a sword to pierce the air.

So quietly that no one heard, Markus spoke.

“I am death.”

And then the sky caught fire.
***